Stopping for Pizza

Cherished Readers,

Here’s a little something. Thanks for reading.

Stopping for Pizza

After a full week, I walk into the pizza joint on Friday night to get some dinner. The man behind the counter greets me with a thick Italian accent and then tilts his head a bit and smiles. He waves his fingers back and forth in front of his throat, indicating the spot where the white tab of my clerical collar pokes through the black clergy shirt. “Are you like a nun or a brother?”

“I’m a United Methodist pastor” I respond, but the man behind the counter looks confused, so I add “Like a priest, a Protestant priest”.

“Not a nun?” He still looks confused, but he pushes a faint smile to the corner of his lips.

“The Catholic Church doesn’t ordain women. I’m a Methodist. Like a Protestant priest. You know”, I add, “Methodist, Lutheran, Presbyterian…”

But the poor man stares blankly while my stomach growls.

“I’m a priest with breasts,” I say with assurance.

“Oh.” He finally seems satisfied, and I order a pizza with mushrooms and onions and black olives. To go.